Write me a letter
by Prussium
Summary: There has always been a mystifying element surrounding his friend that gets Alfred. It was most certainly not his toxic green eyes or his spiky hair. Neither his piercings nor his tattoos. It was his handwriting. (USUK, high school AU)


**Write me a letter**

Forget about _raining cats and dogs_ ‒ to Arthur it was raining crumpled papers. He watched the flameless white comet land on his writing desk and before pressing it open, he gave the blue-eyed dispatcher a black look, a crocodile on the prowl. It said:

_Write me a letter._

It was English class and the students were asked to write an essay; Arthur managed to lose himself as he transcribed the first ten words, willingly drowning in the bottomless pool of lexical thoughts, wading weightless against syntactic gravity, fluidity intact, while the rest of the class struggled free from the anchor of distraction ‒ one of them Alfred.

The daydreamer broke away from his fluttering thoughts outside the window and sent his friend abstracted words sheltered in crumpled papers with the hope of reciprocity; he wasn't betrayed. Alfred watched his most awaited parcel land on his little wooden airfield and unveiled the message with famished eyes, he couldn't wait any longer:

_X_

Alfred face palmed in exasperation. Knowing Arthur, he should've seen it coming but he wasn't giving up. He volleyed another:

_Not like that, silly! Write me a letter. Like, a real one._

The receiver shifted his gaze from the work in progress to the new arrival crease, keenly observant of his pursuer. He had to give Alfred credit for his little improvement in writing, in those letters he received at least ‒ no abbreviations or butchered words or even invisible punctuation marks ‒ astounding! Who would've thought that English class could still rub its magic to his resilient friend? After securing the gap between his seat and Alfred's from the teacher's Medusan glare, Arthur pitched the message:

_Al, as much as I want to mess around with you, I am still occupied enumerating justifications for Shakespeare against these idiotic allegations of racism and anti-Semitism. What about you?_

Alfred chuckled at the correspondence, electric blue eyes smoldering green. He'd be more than willing to sell his soul in exchange of meeting a Time Lord to travel back in Shakespeare's time and bring the bard to Arthur if that would make him happy.

Realizing how little he had composed on his own essay, Alfred turned his attention to the pen on his hand. He simply wished he attracted creative juices as much as Arthur does but then again, English literature wasn't his world. He was more engrossed with the swaddling laws of science and mathematical theorems although Arthur wasn't far behind.

His paper was a skin of an audacious child, blemished with scratches and bruises that left their mark to speak for his efforts. He paused to find himself once again admiring the uninterrupted view beyond the window and then looked around him ‒ the teacher and the classroom dissolving out of the picture except Arthur as the boy tapped his pen against his lips, passing his unwritten ideas to his fingertips, divulging his second nature.

To Alfred, there has always been a mystifying element surrounding his friend that gets him, he just couldn't point a finger, but now that he thought about it… It was most certainly not his toxic green eyes that come with smoky shadows every Friday night nor his spiky hair that changes colors as much as he was changing his skin tight tattered jeans. It wasn't his piercings adorning his pale skin, neither the tattoos hidden underneath his dark clothing though he was quite surprised where he found them.

It was Arthur's handwriting.

Even after years of scrawling through his notebooks, test papers and application forms, Alfred's handwriting hadn't revolutionized from the wide, angular and lousy scribbles he carried all the way from grade school ‒ his mom always told him that's what he gets for staying in front of the computer or the Xbox longer than he goes out with his friends on Friday nights ‒ whereas Arthur's handwriting reflects one of those cursive font styles with long, elegant strokes. Rarely does he see people with such penmanship, something that doesn't belong in this century, outdated but should be revered rather than ridiculed.

Alfred began to write on another separate sheet of paper, imitating Arthur's envious script. He tossed it to Arthur.

_Please?_

Just when he thought he'd be able to wrap up his essay in peace, Arthur's eyes widened with outrage.

_What the fuck? _He mouthed to Alfred.

"Ten minutes," the teacher announced from her desk; the students filled the air with agitated sighs in response.

Alfred pleaded, displaying his most pitiful kicked-dog pout.

Arthur threw him a ball of paper:

_ALFRED FOSTER JONES, IF I DON'T FINISH THIS ESSAY I SWEAR YOU'LL NEVER GET LAID ON GILBERT'S PARTY TOMORROW NIGHT._

_AND STOP MAKING FUN OF MY HANDWRITING!_

Like a suddenly full-tanked car, Alfred went on with their secret correspondence.

_Whoa all caps! And printed! Calm your British heart, Artie. I'm not making fun of your handwriting ‒ I'm admiring it. I want to write like you._

The conclusion was around fifty words away. Thinking he'd still finish it on time, Arthur played along with Alfred before his silly friend could throw a tantrum on the floor (who knows). Relaxing to his normal elegant strokes, he wrote:

_The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog._

_Guess who the lazy dog is._

Alfred forged the other's handwriting with his own shaky lettering, a second grader learning cursive for the first time:

_Not me._

Before replying, Arthur scribbled another ten words to his paper and then wrote to Alfred:

_If a girl tells you she doesn't like your nose because it's big, will you get a nose job?_

Arthur heard a low, offended gasp from his friend's seat and found him rubbing the bridge of his nose, a faint shade of pink sprinkled across his face. He waited for his response:

_No! My nose is fine as it is! Why would I change it?_

Last thirty-five words to finish the essay, Arthur mentally counted, or perhaps forty. He wrote:

_Same goes for handwriting: it's an extension of one's personality. It's a part of you. It's who you are. Do you want to be a clone of me?_

It took almost a minute before Alfred gave his answer. He might be wrapping up his essay as well. Alfred sent:

_Nah, thanks. One Arthur Kirkland is more than enough to drive the entire world crazy._

Almost finished, twenty words left. Twenty vital words to nail his argument.

_Arsehole._

Alfred buried his head on his desk to stifle a roar of laughter as he mentally pictured Arthur's elegant scribble in one of those vintage humored photos on Tumblr. He was about to send his response to Arthur when he felt a standing figure behind him, eyes digging a hole on his back.

"Jones and Kirkland, see you in detention after class."

* * *

"Aw c'mon Artie, sober up! It's not that bad. At least we're spending more time together and you still finished the essay."

Alfred purred and brushed his shoulder against Arthur's as the other sulked away.

"You idiot! What good is finishing it when the teacher won't give it any credit? It doesn't change anything!" Arthur swore and flailed his arms in frustration.

"But you didn't say if you won't finish it _on time_," Alfred said, meeting Arthur's defiant eyes.

Getting Alfred's message, Arthur grunted. "You are absolutely_ not_ getting laid tomorrow night."

Alfred protested. They spent the next hour locked in a room with no one else but the two of them, Alfred pestering Arthur as he begged to differ about the idea of abstinence. On the bright side, Alfred got to practice his handwriting, made it more legible at least.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Poor Alfie won't get laid. Boo-hoo._

_This is one of my oldest drabbles. Experimental and pretentious. I won't write this way again, that's for sure. Haha!_


End file.
